The piccolo was proud to be in such distinguished company:
The violin, viola, cello, trumpet, horn and saxophone,
The oboe, flute and clarinet, the tuba and trombone.
This philharmonic union was in perfect synchrony,
Producing magic moments of euphoria at its best.
Within the windwood family he was their little brother.
Then one day he had a thought, 'I'm superior to the rest.
My high range and agility cannot be equaled by another.
Occasionally I cut right through and rearrange the mood.
I can be soft or perky, even strident if I choose.
I liven up the show, it's me who spices up the stew.
So often do I sit back while others get their limelight thrill.
So seldom do I get to play, each time confined to what they do.
I could become a star, but here I'm nothing more than frill.'
Alas, he bid adieu to this fine crew and left them quite undone.
The violin wept, the tuba groaned, in disbelief the symbols clashed,
Bassoon fairly swooned, then came a disapproving trumpet blast.
The cautioning conductor reminded him of what becomes
Of wayward drops and fallen leaves when severed from the source.
He paid no heed and left the auditorium with no remorse.
At first he won the applause of every crowd that gathered,
Performing in the plazas, in the parks and on the promenades,
But after just a little while they all began to scatter.
He found he had to move around to generate attention,
And he was getting tired, being used to lots of rest.
So distinctive and unique, but novelty has no dimension.
His last resort, the subway, where he played, but hardly at his best.
Some children even turned away with fingers in their ears.
It looked as if he'd lost his pitch, which was his greatest fear.
As he approached the concert hall, proverbial tail between his legs,
He heard a sound that froze his heart and flooded him with dread.
A bright and strident piccolo was playing in his stead.